


Tell me why the world never fights fair // I'm trying to find

by JoCarthage



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Drunken Confessions, Drunkenness, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-06 07:53:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21223145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoCarthage/pseuds/JoCarthage
Summary: Alex was, to put it lightly, drunk. Skunk drunk, he giggled to himself as he stumbled out of the Pony, a promise on his lips to Maria to wait for the 3 minutes the cab she'd called for him. Stuck drunk a crueler part of him, the part of him that never let anything go echoed.Stuck, because, well, wasn't he? He'd switched to whiskey as soon as he'd seen curls flash in the neon, started on the doubles once he heard that laugh. Michael wasn't with Maria -- wasn't with anyone much at all -- and it was, well; his therapist would tell him to say that it hurt but what it really did was suck.





	Tell me why the world never fights fair // I'm trying to find

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Home" by Machine Gun Kelly, X Ambassadors & Bebe Rexha: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IumYMCllMsM
> 
> Thank you so much to @ParticularlyExistence for turning this into a podfic! https://archiveofourown.org/works/21739738

Alex was, to put it lightly, drunk. _Skunk drunk_, he giggled to himself as he stumbled out of the Pony, a promise on his lips to Maria to wait 3 minutes for the cab she'd called for him. _Stuck drunk_ a crueler part of him, the part of him that never let anything go echoed.

Stuck, because, well, wasn't he? He'd switched to whiskey as soon as he'd seen curls flash in the neon, started on the doubles once he heard that laugh. Michael wasn't with Maria -- wasn't with anyone much at all -- and it was, well; his therapist would tell him to say that it _hurt_ but what it really did was _suck_.

It _sucked_ that he was spending all day trying to protect Michael's family when the man himself wouldn't give him the time of day; it _sucked_ that he was so bad at it that Isobel had been kidnapped last week and only Flint's utterly shitty op-sec had let them get to her before he'd gotten her out of the country. It _sucked_ that it was a Saturday night, he was young, mostly whole, and entirely horny, and the one man he wanted to spend all of that on was hustling tourists for pool winnings inside the bar he'd just stumbled out of.

He leaned against a random mid-century truck, panic brain assuring him it had no wailing alarm to trigger. The pale door took his weight and Alex found himself wanting nothing more than to just _sleep_ until this echoing misery had left him. 

It always did, as the alcohol filtered away and his mind filled with strategies and the smiles of his friends who _were_ talking to him.

His inner fairy of fairness insisted Michael was, in fact, talking to him. They had a strict no-texting-about-aliens rule, given op-sec, so they texted instead about Michael's repair work and Alex's PT; Alex's landscaping adventures and Michael's PTSD. It was something like a friendship, something like a life, and it _sucked_. Not because it wasn't _good_, wasn't better than anything Alex had had for his entire life, really. 

But it wasn't what he _wanted_. 

He wanted _Michael_. All of him. Every bit of him. Every singular, impossible, improbable, wonderful piece of him.  


Alex hooked his fingers moodily in the door handle, cold metal jangling his nerves like a half-assembled M15. He prodded at it, letting his fingers clumsily fail to grasp it. The paint was a little rough, a little uncomfortable to touch, and he traced his fingernails against it, finally pulling away when a sliver flaked off and zinged him right under the cuticle. He snatched his hand away and the door came open and the smell yanked him a decade back, fingers tingling and eyes brightening with it --

He'd told Michael, that first day he was back, that he made him feel 17 again, and it was -- true, to a point. He made him feel real and carefree and cared for and like his body was meant for more than working hard and amping up with caffein and grinding down low on whiskey. He made him feel worth it.

That was such in seeing him.

But this --

The _smell_ of Michael's truck was the smell of that forbidden summer. Between the kiss in the museum and the toolshed 6 weeks later, it was -- enough. More than enough. For a lifetime of heartbreak and jerking off and missing and _wanting_.

And so much of that had happened on these body-soft leather seats. 

Alex hauled himself into the driver's seat, the hitch of it the same, knee crackling at same height as it had been a decade and a limb-loss ago. He leaned out, bracing himself on the wheel, and snagged the door closed. It was easy, sitting here, to imagine he still had all his working parts, with his weight off his aching stump, with his cane left to fall in the Roswell dust. The truck drowned-out the rowdy sounds of the Pony the way it had seemed to drown out the whole entire world that summer; like it could keep him safe, keep Michael safe, keep _them_ safe, as long as he stayed here, stayed in this place between the steering wheel and the front dash, under this thrice-mended roof and above the pock-marked floor.

Balance askew, he reached under the seat and -- there it was. The sleeping-bag Michael had called home, still in its stuff sack, still crisply rolled as anyone who relied on it for warmth nightly would care for it. Michael had the trailer -- heck, Michael had his place and Max's and Isobel's and any number of options these days -- but some part of him still always needed the safety of his truck. 

Not letting himself think of what he was doing, Alex plucked at plastic cinch of the stuff sack.

Not letting himself think about it, he shoved his hand down deep into the bag, the silvery nylon catching at his ragged cuticles.

Not letting himself think about it, he tugged the bag's edge out, then a little more, then a little more, then, with a last heave that almost tipped him down in the footwell, he pulled the entire thing free.

He saw the sweep of lights and knew it was his cab, but his body was already diving down, laying flat on the bench seat, dragging his whole leg into the slippery sleeping bag. The light switched off and he heard Luis get out, probably heading in to ask Maria where his promised fare had wandered off to. Alex unhitched his prosthetic, wrinkling his nose as the smell of the long-worn sock, and reached over to crack a window. The sound of the night -- swearing and the crack of a pool shot and the clink of glasses and the shuffle of booted feet trying to two-step to entice the rare female fare in the Pony -- filtered in, but the smell of the sock filtered out too, so he figured it was an even trade.

Still determinedly not thinking, he slipped himself, unwhole and wanting, into the sleeping bag. It was brisk out, a crisp winter night, and he burrowed deep, covering his head with the top of the mummy bag, taking every watt of heat he put out and reflecting it back to him, keeping cozy with its plastic warmth.

The slam of the Pony's door jolted him, but he stayed low, out of sight, stayed snuggled down in the warmth of it.

He heard a familiar voice, stone-cold sober and not the one he was expecting, shout: "Alex!"

He should answer.

He didn't.

"Alex?" Came Maria's voice.

He felt bad, but the whiskey lay heavy on his tongue. Maybe if they wanted to see him they should have, you know, not let him drink himself silly in a corner, pretending he didn't exist.

Through the window, he heard: "I'll drive around the block and look for him, he probably just went to go and walk it off."

"Alright, I'll check the bathrooms, in case he came back in the back way. It really does him no favors when you come in here --"

"I'm allowed to come to my favorite bar --"

"And not say hi to him? Not offer to include him? I know you don't need the cash so much you couldn't have been a better friend to him tonight. Who knows, maybe Alex had an undiscovered talent for hustling pool --"

"It's just -- I saw him and I didn't know what to do and I figured, he'd come here without me, he probably didn't want me cramping his style --"

"His _style_ Michael? His _style_ has been drinking himself dreamless every time he so much as whiffs you flirting with someone else? His _style_ is being badly in love with you? Alex's _style_ \--"

"I was just running on automatic, ok Maria? I wasn't thinking -- "

"No shit you weren't --"

"_And now Alex is missing and it's my fault and will you please let me find him?_" Michael's voice was rising and he forced it down low again. "_Please."_

Alex could imagine Maria waving him out into the parking-lot with a brusk thump and Alex was settling in, mind drifting quietly, when the door slammed open and he startled straight up.

"Oh," he said, knowing his face must be a picture -- mouth popped open, the leather stitching of the seat embroidering down his face -- but Michael was silhouetted in the doorlight of the bar, bright eyes and wild curls everything they could be.

"Oh," Michael answered. He took in Alex, curled up in the sleeping bag, the smell whiskey and the prosthetic off and said with a quirked smile: "Give me a sec."

Alex watched him gently shut the door, walk over to Luis and hand him some cash. Then he stepped back inside the Pony, for long enough to find Maria and tell her he'd found him. Then he was back, walking quickly, eyes soft. 

He opened the door again, kneeling to pick-up Alex's crutch and lay it in the footwell. Then he was standing and shifting his weight as he looked-up at Alex. Alex struggled to stay sat-up.

"Mind if I come in?" Michael said slowly. Alex almost bit out that it was Michael's truck, but he -- he knew what he was saying.

"I'm sorry," he said, and Michael nodded, sliding in beside him, Alex's stomach was starting to cramp from holding himself up -- the thing no one tells you about losing a leg is it plays hell on your balance -- and Michael, he seemed to see it.

"You can nap on me while I drive you to your place --"

And Alex must have made a sound because Michael's hand came up to glance against, then press, whole and solid and warm, against his cheek. His thumb traced the negative image of the bench seat's embroidery.

"I'm sorry I've been so --"

And Alex shook his head, much, much too drunk for this, but when Michael turned to the front dash, he lay himself down, curling his legs drowsily to find space against the passenger side door, head stubbornly in Michael's lap, figuring he could move him if he wanted him moved. He felt more than heard Michael use his powers to fit the seatbelt around his supine body. He definitely felt Michael's hand work its way under the sleeping bag to rest against his spine.

"I wasn't trying to ignore you. I just -- I didn't know what you wanted, Alex."

"A common disease, not knowing what I want. I'm familiar."

Michael rubbed his thumb along the place where he spine knobbed out between his wingbones.

"You're getting better at asking, though. Just last week, you asked us all over for dinner --"

"That was a planning session --"

"But it's better than you sitting up there on that mountain top, plotting and lonely. I know you, Alex. I know you don't think I do, but I do. You asked us to came, and we came. You could have asked me to come and have a drink with you, and you didn't. Couldn't maybe, yet."

There was a sound of a chuckle and Alex was glad the desert darkness hid his flushing cheeks.

"So I find you here? It's not a particularly helpful kind of asking, but yeah, it's you asking. I just need to know what you're asking _for_."

Alex covered his eyes with his palm, smelling spilled whiskey on his palm.

He felt, rather than heard, Michael take a breath, belly nudging his head over a little on his thigh before he settled back down.

"Let's try it like this."

He slid his hand up Alex's spine as the truck hummed along on the highway, ruffling the still-short hair at the nape of his neck, fingertips finding their way across his scalp to wrap themselves around Alex's hand.

"One squeeze is yes and two squeezes is no, ok?"

Alex squeezed once, biting his lip.

"Ok, testing, testing, one-two-three, is this on?"

Alex squeezed again, a little harder and Michael chuckled a little.

"Ok, we're about 5 minutes out, so, the big question: do you want me to stay over tonight?"

Alex felt a rush of feelings he couldn't sort through, but the short answer was -- _once for yes._

Something settled in Michael.

"Yeah, ok, me too. But we're agreed, no funny business?"

Alex squeezed once. He was too tired for business of any kind, funny or otherwise.

Michael rushed out -- "It's not that I don't want you, you know, it's just you're drunk and I'm tired and we, we just fuck this up so often, Alex. So, so often. So, so badly. I just -- when we start-up again, I want to do it right. Right?"

One squeeze.

Another small laugh: "Ok, so, do you want me to take the couch?"

Two squeezes. Alex would rather Michael left entirely than sleep on the monstrosity Jim Valenti had left in the living room. He'd heard it creak _when no one was sitting on it_.

"Ok, you want me to sleep in my truck --"

Two quick squeezes.

"Somewhere closer to you? We could both camp out in the truck, just like high school. Just you and me and a billion places to call home. I bet the sky is really clear up where you live."

Alex thought about it, as clearly as he could through the haze of whiskey, but he squeezed twice. For once, he was certain what he wanted.

Michael's voice was low, soft, almost uncertain when he asked: "You want me to stay, with you, in your room?"

One squeeze. Michael let out a breath and Alex pressed his face to Michael's thigh. He wanted to be near him, if only for a night. He could get through this slow dance they were doing with each other, this quiet courting, if he just had something to hold onto. If he had _Michael_ to hold onto.

"We're almost there," Michael murmured.

Alex clenched his jaw, readying himself to get up.

"Second to last question," and his voice was so, so quiet: "You want my help out of the truck or you want to put the leg back on?" Alex froze, not sure what to say, then Michael rephrased: "You want to lean on me to get in?"

One squeeze.

He'd said there was one more question. The truck was slowing, curving into the gravel driveway.

It wasn't what he expected.

"Did you love me, that whole time? The whole ten years?"

And Alex, his heart broke, at the tension, the tenuous way Michael forced those words out. Andhe opened his eyes to look at him, the dark and sparkling sky above him shifting through the windshield, and he found his words too:

"Yes, Guerin. I did. I do."

And Michael leaned his forehead against the wheel, his face working through a whole roiling range of emotions.

"You?" Alex asked and it was instant -- _squeeze once for yes_. Michael squeezed his hand and whispered into the quiet of the truck's cab:

"Me too, Alex. Me too. I do, too. I just need time -- we need time."

"Yeah," Alex said.

The words moved and echoed in the quiet of the truck, the engine ticking down to cold. Then Michael took in a breath and brought Alex's hand up to his mouth, pressing a quick kiss to his palm.

"But let's get you inside. It's got to be warmer in there than out here."

Alex struggled to sit-up, Michael bracing him for a moment until he got his balance back, muttering: "I wouldn't bet on it."

Michael made a querying sound and Alex jerked his head: "No indoor heating; fireplace only. We might want to bring the sleeping bag."

Michael nodded as Alex began extracting himself from the bag and seatbelt. He opened the door, shuddering at the freezing mountain wind, and shut it quickly, sweeping around the hood and meeting Alex at his door. He looked windswept and wild as he looked through the window and Alex pushed the door open, letting his legs hang out over the gap.

Before Michael could ask, he slung his right arm over Michael's shoulder and the other man moved back smoothly, letting him step into the space between him and the truck. Alex kept a tight grip in the middle of the sleepingbag and Michael let him set the pace, taking his weight so smoothly it felt like -- well, it still felt like one of those three-legged races in middle school, but Alex was 95% sure Michael wasn't going to take him sprawling down onto the green with him, leaving them to be encircled by cackling preteens.

He snickered at the image and Michael asked: "What's so funny, Airman?"

And Alex looked over at him. They'd reached the steps and Alex leaned on him, getting up one step as Michael followed him. "Still not my rank, but closer than 'private'."

They took another step; just one more to go. "Oh, you want me to go around calling you 'Captain Alexander -- career field 1a8x2, 10 year veteran, three combat tours completed, purple heart recipient -- Manes'? Would that be better?"

Alex huffed, taking that last step: "Alex is fine, Guerin."

And Michael paused at the door, voice low: "Speaking of asking for what we want."

He levitated Alex's keys out of his pocket, dropping them neatly in Alex's palm. "I'm not the biggest fan of 'Guerin.'" and Alex froze, turning to stare at him in the aching cold night. Michael ducked his head.

"They were just the first people to slap a name on me -- not the only thing they slapped, to be clear -- and I. I just --"

"Michael, I didn't know. Of course. Michael." Alex stumbled out and Michael turned, burying his face in Alex's shoulder, arm around his waist keeping him steady. Alex traced his hand up Michael's back.  "I'm sorry, Michael, I didn't know."

He shrugged under Alex's forehead, muttering: "It's not something I've -- anyway. Let's get inside,"

And if Alex wasn't so very, very drunk, he'd be 3/4 of the way down a shame spiral about not knowing what _name_ the man he loved -- loves -- prefers to be called. But he was safely insulated by his whiskey; he'd feel it in the morning, hopefully when his brain was working well enough to let him realize that Michael not saying anything for 10 years meant that maybe he wasn't the only one with communication issues.

"Ok," Alex said, working the key into the lock.

It was chilly inside -- not freezing, but not comfortable either. Michael eyed the fireplace and gave him a choice of the floor in front of the fire or the couch. He picked the couch, lounging back with the unzipped sleepingbag across his shoulders to watch him light the fire Alex had left ready in the grate. Michael moved easily in Alex'a space, and it came to Alex that in the few times he'd been here in the past few months, he'd paid painstaking attention. He knew where Alex kept the matches and the water glasses, and knew which glass Alex liked to use the most (the one with the improbable Statue of Liberty face carved in the side of it). He waited until Alex drained it, and then set it in the sink to deal with in the morning.

Michael turned, firelight dancing in his eyes, and offered Alex his hands, taking Alex's uneven weight like this was something they'd done for a lifetime, Alex keeping the sleepingbag over his shoulders. The bedroom was a roughly-organized mess, but there was a clear path from the bedroom door to the bed. Leaning up against the side-table were Alex's spare crutches and Alex sighed as he sat down, feeling Michael's eyes on him. Michael glanced over at him and Alex got to work on his boot, slipping his jeans off, leaving his briefs and t-shirt on. Michael followed suit, stripping down to his briefs and taking off his shirt, dropping them on the pile Alex had started  beside the bed. Alex tipped his head, looking at their clothing mixing on the floor and thought _yes_. _This._

Alex worked his way under the covers, spreading the unzipped sleepingbag across the bed and then looked up to see Michael looked down at him, something tense in his eyes.

Alex flicked the edge of the sleepingbag back and forth, then reached up to grab his hand, missing it on the first try before Michael got with the program and helped. He squeezed it once, softly, and said:

"Michael, please."

And Michael came to bed, curling his back into Alex's front, moving so they were fitting close and even under the gently warming covers. It was -- easy. When it was dark and they were just two, tired bodies. Michael _fit_ in a way Alex wasn't sure he'd ever fit inside his own skin. And Michael --

"Goodnight, Michael," Alex murmured.

"Goodnight, Alex," Michael returned.

It took one, two, three long breaths before Alex asked, voice hushed:

"In the morning, will you stay for breakfast?"

Michael squeezed his hand once, gently, before the soft edges of sleep took them both down.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Tell me why the world never fights fair // I'm trying to find](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21739738) by [particularlyexistence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/particularlyexistence/pseuds/particularlyexistence)


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